HD 'Controlled Burn'  2010 Beltane Fest
by tigersilver
Summary: AU, EWE, Time travel or time twisting? Snape, dead as a doornail, has the answers. All the many of him, done up in portraits. This is a non-synchronous tale of many beginnings, middles and maybes. It's full of 'what if's'; it's complex & confusing. H/D.
1. Introduction Warnings Summary

You will pardon me, I'm sure, but this is likely the most favourite fic I've ever written. It needs to be posted as Ingredients for a Potion, and with the art supplied by and commissioned from the wonderful, talented **lonerofthepack**, my eldest spawn (a writer in her own right, natch!) So, for the next 30-40 some days, you'll be seeing me post one Ingredient a Day. It's meant to be read this way and I am indulging myself with this. Forgive.

Without further ado, let's get this cauldron bubbling!

**Title:**Controlled Burn  
><strong>To:<strong>**sugareey**  
><strong>Author:<strong> **tigersilver**  
><strong>PairingThreesome:** H/D; Snape as Mentor  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>* AU & EWE. Time travel, in a sense. Rough sex (_not_ dubcon or noncon); quasi-underaged relations; flangst. Implied het; inclusion of NextGen characters.*  
><strong>Story notes:<strong> This tale is _literally_ in pieces. I hope the reader will forgive me, but I'm humbly asking that he/she concocts it as he/she goes along. Discard the parts you dislike and retain the bits you wish, if you please. It is a jumble sale of a fic; a Chinese takeaway menu. Still, I believe all the essentials are present: the ingredients needed for this Potion (if you'll forgive the fancy), and the proper preparations provided for self-ignition of the conflagration, powering Snape's most ingenious recipe yet. To provide some relief, fair Reader, I've based the action loosely on the Dave Carter song 'Tanglewood Tree'…but not reliably.  
><strong>Beta'd and coded by:<strong> My lovely, forgiving, endlessly patient Dream Team:**demicus***, **lonerofthepack** and **megyal***. Additional much-needed assistance provided by the incomparable **groolover******* and the marvellous **altri_uccelli*******. _All further errors are mine own and I claim them proudly._  
><strong>Word count:<strong> 40,000+/-  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Deceased Professor Severus Snape had always claimed he could 'stopper death itself' with his skill at Potions. What he did _not_ make generally known to his young students was that a Potion could accomplish so much more than merely halt the Grim Reaper. In the proper circumstances, that is, and with the correct motivators, Time itself could be altered. Invoking the ancient Beltane Magic, a bewildering variety of ingredients, Snape's most private jottings and his sage, acerbic counsel (albeit portrait-purveyed), Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy (singly and together) attempt to set to rights a massive wrong—a rift in the very temporal fabric—that only _they_ perceive clearly…and perhaps not always as clearly as all that, either. Their joint efforts have/will/might, could and _can_ remould the very foundations of their lives and the lives of others. And, if Janus should smile, they _will_ succeed.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Characters are the property of JK Rowling, et al. This was created for fun, not for profit.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Dearest **sugareey**, I owe you a proper and very humble apology! I've had this Beltane concept in my head for ages now and all I wished was to have the opportunity to charge ahead and write the damned thing. Fortunately, the wonderful Mods were able to match us up, you and me, and I'm hoping that, although I've not given you all you asked for nor even a quarter of it, really, I did manage to include and incorporate at least a little of your particular Requirement. And not to worry! There is no Epilogue; really, there isn't. I hope, too, that you'll forgive me for practically eloping with this tale; I couldna' help myself, I swear it, 'pon book, bell and candlestick! As for everyone else who tackles this gnarly tangle, you'll likely notice a few stray references to some fairly weighty H/D fanfic titles. You are not mistaken; this is deliberate. I (ahem) was being terribly clever. Please forgive!

**Note:** This is posted as a whole at **hds_beltane***, where it was part of the 2011 Fest. I owe a debt of eternal gratitude to **thisgirl_is**, Mod Extra-Ordinaire and **brilliant author**. She put up with me through numerous extensions, and she wrote me the most perfect of Beltane gifts: Stuck On You.


	2. Meadow Grass

**Controlled Burn**

**Part the First: A Vagrant Young Vine**

_Love is a tanglewood tree, in a bower of green_

_In a forest at dawn_

_Fair while the mockingbird sings, but she soon lifts her wings_

_And the music is gone  
>Young lovers in the tall grass, with their hearts open wide,<br>When the red summer poppies bloom  
>But, love is a trackless domain, and the rumor of rain<br>In the late afternoon_

**Meadow Grass**

The long grass slope had the golden sheen of late afternoon sunlight hazing it. The light turned almost between blinks—Scottish autumn days did not linger when it came time for the close—and painted the glossy green whispers bloody red in patches. The outcropping jutting just above hid an oval-shaped grass and moss-lined hollow, a shallow indentation worn into the hill, as if a giant's forefinger had rubbed there; it had offered concealment even from the wonky-sighted Divination professor, once.

There, it had been. There, and that especial day had been warmer by a scant few degrees, as then it had been spring…but not by much. The blades then had been a fresher hue; insects had buzzed, dotting the slope with glints of paper-thin brilliant wings and polished carapaces, going from flower to flower, tussock to miniature gulley.

There, and all he'd seen – been capable of seeing – had been the dazzle of sun and the black shadow of robed shoulders like flexing wings above him, the grip of pale, taut fingers on his hips and waist…and that familiar mad slash of white snarl and ice-gold flying.

There, he'd surrendered willingly, pants hanging off a passion-twisting ankle and toes curled with rough pleasure, and the cock within him and the demented eyes that spoke volumes and the jerky to-and-fro, in time with wind and as erratic—there, he had been his happiest. His apogee, and Draco's, the moment they'd cried out together, Draco's head tilted far back on a stem of strong, flexing throat, the noise that escaped him not even human. He, eyes wide open, thirsty for all of it; all he could take to him and all that could be given, all that filled him to the brim and flowed over in torrents.

And the green hissing ribbons of meadow grass were like a balm to the wounds of the coming war, and the thick, salted come that filled him was liquid hope, and there was no tomorrow. There was only the here and the now and the constant wind off the Lake blowing Draco's garbled desires straight into Harry's young lungs, inflating and elating. Breathing fancies and hidden wishes and the humid, sour-sweet air of shared kisses.

He remembered his lips had been swollen for hours after; he'd been forced to spell them for concealment's sake.

"What's Dad doing out there, just standing?" Albus wanted to know. He jogged his elder brother with an elbow. Trelawney's Tower faced down upon a long, slanted lea, with the Lake lapping catty-cornered and the Forest a lurking black-green shadow marking the further boundary. "Why's he here? He didn't say he was coming to Hogwarts, did he?"

Harry Potter, Auror, was indeed present at Hogwarts, standing still and quiet, his attention clearly fixed on the far distant vista. From the vantage point of the Tower his two sons could make out the glint of washed-out sunshine reflecting off polished spectacle lenses.

"Dunno," James replied. He was unusually thoughtful, Al could tell, but he wasn't being forthcoming…if he even knew anything more than Al did. "Here to visit us, maybe?"

"Prat. Makes no sense, that," Albus, being Slytherin, scoffed, even though he still looked up to James with a minor species of hero-worship. "It's Wednesday, arse. He never comes on a Wednesday—and it's not Hogsmeade weekend, this one. Not for ages."

"Auror business, then," James shrugged. "You're so curious, squirt, you go ask him."

"…No," Al decided, and took the next step upwards, leaving the unexpected view of his father behind with a hurried flourish of school robes. Gryffs and Slyths still shared some Electives and the old bat McGonagall had instituted cross-ages classes for the higher Years, theorizing that NEWT and OWLS revision would both benefit from peer tutoring. Astrology, being a soft science, was one of those selected. "Leave it; 's'not important," he announced. When James didn't instantly follow, Al spun back, impatient. "Come _on_, git—shake a leg, will you? Scorp's saving us seats!"

"...Coming. Keep your hair on, I'm coming."

Harry had howled that exact same phrase, once. To the crushed grass beneath his spine, to the triumphant grin Draco wore like a bloody banner, to the world spread out like some giant Marauder's Map before them—but still uncharted. Undefined by dark bold lines that weren't meant to be crossed over, ever.

Joyous. Entranced. In the forgiving bosom on Mother Earth, they'd rutted, two young animals, blond and black-pelted. Young things, romping.

_There_, in the grasses, just _there_—two boys had once known something like happiness. _Happy_. Such a bland, innocuous word for all they'd risked, that. Feeble. They'd not have ever called it that, for fear of ridicule, but they'd welcomed it still, being a step away from childhood.

No wonder it had failed them, then, in the bitter end. No wonder the promise had been empty. Too simple.


	3. Crow's Feather

**Crow's Feather**

"So. You've found it, then, Potter."

The voice was as acrid dry and rich withal as he remembered, figgy-pudding crumbling into a treacly puddle. Severus Snape looked down upon his old student from his place of pride over the hearth mantel, patronizing as always. "Riffling through my things again, I see. Cheeky."

Harry shrugged a careless shoulder; he was used to this.

"Huh. You gave permission, Professor, when you left me them. This, in particular. Whose fault, then?"

"Pah. You should've had that memorized already, Potter—should have no need to consult it—that was a lifetime ago."

"Yes," Harry looked up to meet Snape's snapping black eyes with a furious gleam in his own. "That's the problem in a nutshell, Snape. And you know it."

There was silence, abruptly. Because of course Snape had engineered this exact result most deliberately, shocking them all with his various bequests. Snape never lifted a finger without at least three reasons for it, even in the afterlife, and two of them Slytherin-hidden. Harry, intent, continued scanning the pages of the book on his knee. It was elderly in years and apparently had not been well-loved: a used Potions text, with detailed notes from an enterprising student decorating it. He'd been afraid of it once; had let himself be convinced it would cause harm—no more. Aurors had taught him that it was not the curse or Potion nor hex that damaged, it was the Wizard.

Eventually Snape nodded faint acknowledgement of his possibly grievous tactical error in willing that Potter a single blasted thing, much less this telling glimpse into his fine and creative thinking, but, not surprisingly, he skipped over any actual form of apology. An armed truce had come to work well for them, post-war.

Harry, not expecting anything like, made no comment. He'd been busily pondering a different topic altogether. It led to grimacing and a bout of internal musing, as it almost always did. He heaved an impatient sigh after a while, shutting the tatty pages on a finger to keep his place, and sipping at his postprandial shot of Firewhisky meditatively. The fire crackled on, oblivious.

Snape raised his eyebrows blandly, covertly observing his old charge for signs of imminent outburst, but Potter only opened the book again to his saved place, a determined grimace settling upon his face, shoulders squared against the tufted squabs of his armchair. "Right, right," he muttered. Snape refrained from replying—Potter often babbled to himself when he was swotting and Snape had grown accustomed to the soft murmurings. It wasn't until another long silence had played out that Harry spoke again, and still softly, perhaps speaking only to himself as his stare was blank and empty—as if he were alone in the room. It happened that way, often enough; Snape, preoccupied or about some arcane business of his own, would go off to visit his other portraits, scattered now over the landscape of England. He seldom spoke of these visits but, when he did, Harry had always learnt something useful.

"I'd no idea, you know?" Harry kept his eyes fixed on the list of ingredients for the moment, though his chin rose. It was a lengthy Potions recipe and there were many caveats as to the condition of the items and methods in which they'd been collected. Notes populated all the available space in the deep margins, scribbled away in tiny, tiny curling script, flowing from a quill long dry, he was certain. The young Snape had not been indulged with Never-Ending™ Inked ones, as other, more fortunate students had. "That you'd gone so very deep into this, Professor; that _far_—"

"It was the least I could do, Potter," Snape replied hastily. He knew more than enough not to ask of Harry to what Potion he referred. "The very least. And it was…fitting. I owed her that."

"Yes," Harry agreed, his eyes moist behind his lenses. "Yes, it was, Snape. Thank you. I know I say it every time but…thank you."

Harry's old Potions Master only cleared his throat, shifting impatiently in his painted armchair. Harry had learnt he was not at all pleasant nor easy to deal with when asked hard questions: Why did you save me? Was it only ever my Mum you loved? What's with that locket you've left me? Whose hair is it that's black, Snape—your mother's?

Why did you not say something—_anything_—sooner? This could've been avoided. Mitigated, at least—you'd have been alive now, Snape!

Harry had raged at one point in time, shortly after his bequest was delivered, his furious confusion bubbling over like lye soap in an overheated cauldron; Snape only departed his elaborately carved frame for calmer climes, unperturbed. Eventually, Harry had learnt to rein in his impetuous mouth. And slowly, ever so slowly, his inner image of Severus Snape had resolved to quite a different one.

Snape had indeed stymied Death. For one single moment, fleeting, and only to provide surcease from wicked agony. It had been his overweening goal and he'd succeeded, and Lily Evan's retake on her very last second on this mortal coil had been pain-free and—clear-headed, and—startlingly _alive_.

Because of that, there'd been Love enough to shield baby Harry. A paradox, necessarily. A paradox, _created_. A Potion to alter time itself, _de__facto_.

A silence fell upon the room, but it wasn't an uncomfortable descent. The hearth crackled merry with ash and oak and mulberry; the spring rain pattered companionably on the window panes. Parchment whispered, lofting and falling gently in the cozy quiet.

What mischief had been managed once, could be so again. Snape had never once failed to deliver excellent results in Potions.

"So, er," the man himself remarked eventually, after the sole breathing occupant of the study had turned a few more pages, peering closely at the writing and apparently completely absorbed. "I assume you'll be following in my illustrious footsteps, then? Potter?"

Harry's head snapped up; his gaze challenging.

Snape sneered; paint and daub only enhanced his ability to do so. The sneer could linger longer on a face immortalized thusly.

"I've turned Time itself, Potter. I know _you_; don't doubt that I do. You've plans, Potter—some mad scheme is ticking away in that maggoty mess you dare call a brain."

"Why ever would you assume _that_, Professor Snape?" Harry snorted, shifting his crossed legs under the Half-Blood Prince's book. As Headmaster, it seemed, Snape had known exactly what had been done with it by two young Gryffindors long ago, and had retrieved it intact from the Room well before the fateful Fiendfyre.

"Cheeky!"

As a young man, a boy, he'd been fast friends with an irrepressibly clever Witch, Lily Evans. It was safe to say he knew her child, Harry Potter, very well indeed, if only from inference and observation.

"Besides," Snape shifted as well, smoothing down his robes and grimacing…it had taken Harry several years of enforced proximity to sort out that that particular twist to those thin lips was, in fact, a species of Snape-ish smile. "I know you want to, Potter. It's written all over you. Idiot boy."


	4. Rue

**Rue**

The Ministry for Magic, rebuilt, was a rabbit warren, worse than ever before. For some, though, it was far more secure. No more would the edifice of Wizarding law and order be easily penetrable by any passing Hogwarts student with a will and a way and some Polyjuice Potion to spare. But then…there was no need for that, was there?

Kingsley Shacklebolt believed in transparency. No more, either, would the doings of the Ministry be shrouded in darkness and intrigue. Every employee was subjected to a most rigorous hiring process; even the venerable Wizengamot had been revamped to reflect the New Order.

There would not be tolerated, however, slip-shod slip-sliding into ethical quagmires on the part of the people in charge of Wizarding government. Accountability, responsibility and integrity were the key words of the day. And even a Death Eater could be deserving of forgiveness…and employment.

That was perhaps the most important act Harry Potter had ever accomplished. When Voldemort died, so had died a whole grubby, thorny, muddy bracken of disreputable underbrush layers, the petty evils that thrived in the shade of his evil. As a tree falling in the forest brings along others with it—the weak and the shallow-rooted—so ended a generation of apathy: that miserable soul-killer, responsible for more death and misery than any evil Dark Lord had ever conceived of.

Tom Riddle had been the condensing prism, the focusing lens of the accumulated apathy of Wizarding ages, the distillated, concentrated result of eons of careless cruelties and fractured ethics. Harry Potter shattered that distorted lens and broke the illusion permanently. Kingsley Shacklebolt had made it his life's mission to keep the air clear of the fug of pointless hatreds, of small misunderstandings. Still, the new Ministry was designed for its residents protection. It was a fortress, built even to resist fifth columns. If one wished to be safe, if one required privacy, one chose the Ministry as a haven.

The Ministry corridor was thus endless and dull. When Draco Malfoy emerged from his meeting with Kingsley Shacklebolt, he turned by the discreetly nondescript door that led to the Minister's office and sagged against it. Jerked his chin up instantly, for there was Harry Potter, iconic Hero, striding along with a swish and flare of scarlet-blood Auror robes, the gleam of black knee-length boots and shiny brass buttons. Harry Potter: still scarred, still with that hair, still with those much-mended specs obscuring his face.

No…not hiding eyes old before their time, those re-bent black frames…instead, turning the world back upon itself, rather. Fending it off with the opacity of carven, polished jade, reflecting through refraction.

Harry Potter. Two words, one man: engraven indelibly upon every cell in Draco Malfoy's person, from cock to earlobes to lips to the harried muscle beating bluntly behind his ribcage.

Four years gone already, so the broad shoulders outlined under the cape were more than understandable. An Auror, so the closely outlined thighs and calves that Draco caught glimpses of beneath the quiet, but efficiently determined flap of uniform garb were entirely feasible. A married man, so the golden band on one finger was perfectly sensible.

A father. Of two, with another on the way. They desperately hoped for a little girl this time, or so the _Prophet_ reported.

Direct gaze, never swerving; determined gait, never ceasing. With barely a ghost of a nod to acknowledge Draco's presence, Harry Potter swept on past him, not missing a beat.

And did not notice—seemingly-the quick faltering hand extended involuntarily after him, nor hear the whispered hiss, barely an intake of a breath: the 'Harry!' that kissed the settling air currents of the narrow taupe-hued corridor and fell flat, deflated.

Deflected.

_Did_ not hear, _did_ not see, _did_ not wish. Did. Not. _Want_.

Draco, who'd tensed into the arc of a drawn bow, who had ceased aught else solely to stare hungrily after this one solitary figure, came undone in an infinitely slow process. Crack and pop went the spine, straightening; blood sizzled along his arteries, till one could imagine his very skin, steaming.

"I cannot."

He addressed the empty space where Potter had just been, with eyes fixed straight ahead, well-kept hands (excepting always the actual fingernails; nibbled) in lax fists at his sides, his measured pace solid and brisk. No stomping, no flurry; no swagger—not Harry. A thoughtful man, grown from a boy who'd had trouble controlling his strongest emotions. Potter, the very epitome of 'hero', emerged phoenix-like from the ashes of his past.

"I cannot!" he bit out, snapping teeth on it.

What Kingsley had just agreed to, reluctantly, was his golden opportunity; perhaps his last one. He'd lobbied for it, plotted for it and pulled in favour after favour. He would not waste it. And with a whirl of his own fine robes, his very best professional ones and carefully chosen to 'convince the Minister this action is absolutely necessary, and don't fret the expense' robes, Draco Malfoy spun away from the stolid door at his back (his sole form of support during the whole of that endlessly long, soul-rending, solitary walk down that deserted corridor, when he-who'd-been-simply-'Harry'-once did not a thing more than spare Draco Malfoy a terse nod of acknowledgement, same as he would any colleague in passing; when Harry Potter, Auror, had pinched his remembered lips just-so taut and kept his chin pointed firmly toward the end of the hallway, looming—the end of the line, literally, as it split into a T-intersection there; the acid rising in his throat had nearly swamped him)

…and fled the scene of his not-quite snubbing. For it would not stop him. Nothing would stop him, not now.

And _fled_ back to his own Auror cubicle, with a fiery vengeance built and born of fury, fed on glum despair…waxed wroth to blazing by Potter's bland dismissal.

It would _not_ end this way. Draco wouldn't have it. Snape would be his weapon; had even claimed he was willing to be so used. Dear Severus. Sworn to always protect him.

With a decided stomp of heel-toe and a glint in his grey eyes that betold woe to any who dared stay him, he went. Woe and rue, cried the muffled squeak of shoe on lino—and perhaps, as well, some collateral damage done to Malfoy's carefully reconstructed reputation.

Not that he cared for _that_. Potter was in for a decided surprise, a change of circumstances that would be far-reaching.


	5. Spice Tree Twigs

**Spice Tree Twigs, Shredded**

"What in the bleeding feck are you doing, Harry?"

"Something's not right here. I'm fixing it."

"What isn't right?" Draco was as demanding at forty as he'd been at twenty and at eleven, too. 'Be my friend!', 'Be my enemy!', 'Make me your lover!', 'Save me from him, Harry!'

Well…perhaps those exact words had never crossed Draco Malfoy's lips; would never, either, but Harry had received the message, all the same. The issue was to sort it. Carefully. Again and again and again. Thus, the Beltane fire, the cauldron and the pile of ingredients Harry and Draco had dutifully toted out to a clearing in the Forbidden Forest.

And Snape. Explained him as well, that wretched nasty-wise git. Even only paint-and-daub, he was no teddy bear's picnic.

"I thought we'd dealt with all that rubbish, Potter?" Harry was only 'Potter' when Draco was in a judging mood. Or when they were back in the corridors of Hogwarts, lending their services as guest faculty. Or…when he felt the need. "There shouldn't be much more left to do. Minor adjustments only. It's a recipe, Potter—not an experiment!"

"Mmm, but there is. I can feel it, Draco. Pass me that curvy dark stick there, would you?"

"This? This is pomegranate wood, Harry. I thought we used olive, last."

"And the other—the oak kindling. The smaller heap, not the large."

"Then you'll be needing the holly and the honeysuckle, too. I wish you'd told me; I'd have brought along—"

"Didn't realize, Draco, or I'd have been on it already. Hermione, Snape and I only mapped this out yesterday. You were in meetings all day long, Draco."

"Well… it had better work. M'not going through it again, Harry. And neither are you."


	6. Chamomile

**HD CB 1.5 Chamomile**

"Fascinating." Hermione's head nodded over the closely written pages. "I didn't realize he'd taken his studies to this point. What an amazing man."

"I know," Harry nodded. Shook his head; sighed. He did know; Snape had no problem informing him of it—often.

"Thank you, Granger, for those kind words. I am so pleased to learn my competence astounds you," Snape, never quite polite, nodded his painted head, having glanced up from the painted tome he was perusing. Hermione didn't even look up, she was so heavily involved with her reading. "I am now completely at peace in the hereafter."

Hermione giggled behind a palm, her face colouring prettily.

"Shut it, you," Harry chuckled, with a mix of reluctant fondness (who knew the constant sharp turn of word could actually grow on one, anyway?) and bloody-minded resignation. Snape, the buggering berk, had become as much a part of his daily life as Ginny had. And, gods forbid, the old crotchety codger had proved infinitely more amusing. "I know you now, Snape; bloody twat. Don't forget I'm afflicted with you in perpetuum." Hermione did giggle at that sally, all the while turning a crumble-edge page of lined parchment and scribbling down yet another item on her partial list of ingredients.

"Aren't we all, Harry?" she smiled. She spared a sly smile to the portrait of Snape. "Oh, no offense, Professor."

Snape harrumphed, lips tight over some illegible text.

Harry grinned at the both of them, but the question still burnt. He needed answers. Stat-now-yesterdays ago. "Right—so, question is, Hermione—can we replicate it?" He turned to fully face the portrait of a younger Snape in his brand new Hogwarts Lecturing robes, cocking an eyebrow enquiringly. "What d'you think, Professor? Might we? Is it possible?"

"Of course you may replicate the experiment, Potter," Snape chided, sneering down that nose. He must've been all of twenty-three or twenty-four then, Harry decided, but still as much of a rude git as always. "Even at that young age I was more than capable of creating effective mixtures which produced consistent results. Built my reputation on it, Potter—is your memory starting to fail you, now? Or are you merely weak-witted?"

"Snape," Harry warned.

"Besides," Snape added hurriedly, as this young version was not, perhaps, as acerbic as some of the later models, "it was used, once, and worked quite sufficiently well. As you've learnt in your reading, Potter. And through the mere act of breathing, dolt."

"Yes..." Harry knew the story; it warmed the cockles of his heart and left him more in charity with the greasy old git than ever. Who'd have thought? "Yes, I know you did, Snape. Thank you, again. The question is, and remains, can we? We'll have to scare up this huge long list of ingredients—some of which are now likely either extinct or forbidden-and then time the ritual you've devised exactly for this year's Beltane's beginning—and Malfoy will have to know. He must. I can't just go and change things up on him. It will affect the children—all of them. And Gin, too—and also Neville, likely. You know how he is. We'll be needing that cauldron you've willed him, Snape. And, too, we must be very careful how we go about this. No foul ups this time. We can't afford it."

"Of course we will, Harry," Hermione murmured. "Always."

Snape smiled at them both. Truly smiled—beamed his full approval. This younger Snape could manage that sort of action, it seemed. No wonder he and Hermione rubbed along so well with one another; she'd been landed with the only pleasant Snape in existence!

"Good on you, Potter. Glad to hear you've learnt at least something." He glanced at the painted tome propped on his folded knee; turned it just so, adjusting its facing edge carefully, so that Harry, peering, could finally note the title: The Art and History of Time-Altering Magicks. "I think, though," the portrait Professor added thoughtfully, "you'll find that our young Malfoy is already thinking upon similar lines, Potter. Ah! Oi! Miss Granger! Do have a care for that one page—the ink's poisoned!"


	7. Willow

HD CB 1.6 Willow

**Willow**

Harry had the sneaking suspicion Malfoy was actually_ not_ faking it for all he was worth. Oh, he talked it up and Harry, naturally, had to come back up his nose about _malingering gits_ and not give him an inch of sympathy—Ron required it, as much as he required oxygen—but.

But, but, but, there were always complicating factors.

Snape was Malfoy's Head of House and he wasn't about to allow for any form of malingering, not even on the part of his pet boy. And Dumbledore—Harry trusted Dumbledore—why would he ever allow Malfoy to swan about with a bandage and a sling for that long? It had been months, now! And Pomfrey, too. She was no fool, Madam. Malfoy would've been fixed up right quick if it were only a scratch.

Not that Buckbeak had ever meant to hurt Malfoy. Malfoy was just a git, and an arrogant git at that, and Buckbeak was (Harry agreed with Hagrid) a nice enough fellow for a beast but he had a bird brain, all the same. It had been unintentional, and absolutely Malfoy had over-reacted, _but_.

That didn't lessen Harry's sneaking suspicion that Malfoy really was hurt. His pride, certainly, but also his body, and specifically his arm. And Harry was noticing bodies, for the first time ever. In between bouts of worry over Voldemort and fretting over Sirius Black and deflecting Hermione ('Study, study, study, Harry; you're missing so much of the basics!') and pandering to Ron's somewhat fragile state (Ron wasn't doing so well with puberty, likely because it had attacked him nearly overnight), Harry noticed them: supple, budding young bodies, springing upwards like young shrubs, reaching for the light. Even _he_ had managed to gain a few millimeters here and there and fill in a bit across the shoulders. Malfoy, of course, with his rich parents and his wealthy background, and his mother, who sent him sweets like clockwork, was a fair flower already, and leagues ahead of Harry as far as physical maturity went. He was a young god, Harry thought reluctantly, though he didn't—and wouldn't—have ever put it that way.

He'd say Malfoy was _fit_. Except for that bum arm of his. Which likely was real enough, given Buckbeak's actual beak, sharp as a razor as it was. But there was only one way to know for sure, and that was by doing a bit of reconnaissance.

As far as Hermione ever knew, Harry had only been in the Slytherin Common Room the one time, and had quickly got himself out too, business completed. But Harry had decided some time previous that if the elder members responsible for his safety and well-being weren't willing to inform him of things—important, crucial things, like that Sirius Black was his godfather, for fuck's sake!—then he should take steps to learn them for himself. He'd got rather surefooted as a result, finding his way 'round Hogwarts in the dark, under the cloak, and he was justifiably proud of that accomplishment. He was yet more proud of the way he always had a firm handle on the ever-changing Slytherin password (by grace of Goyle or Crabbe, generally, who had larger lungs and thus louder whispers) and therefore had access to their gossip at will.

Ron would complain later that Harry was 'obsessed' with Malfoy; he didn't know the bleeding half of it.


	8. Mint

**HD CB 1.7 Mint**

**Mint**

"Harry, what did you_ do_? Add mint?"

"Some. But I think this fire needs to be a bit higher—and hotter. Shift back, will you? I'm going to give it a boost."

"No—_you_, Potter. Remove yourself from the work space, git. Let the expert do it. And it was far too soon for the mint—can you not _read_? It's right here, just as Severus noted it."

"It was not too soon for the mint, dickweed. Hermione went over this part of the Potion with me just the five thousand times. I know what I'm doing. Likely more than you do, prick."

"Hah! I'm not so certain of that, Harry!" Draco snorted; under his breath he added, "I have doubts, pinhead. This was never your best subject."

He tossed a handful of something spark-creating into the Beltane fire. Harry glared across it as it shot up high and higher, flaming a delicate violet.

"I heard that, git."

"Piss off, Potter," Draco replied fondly. "Here, hand me that. I'll do it."

"Fine."

Harry rocked back on his heels, pulling his offensive hand (which clutched a huge handful of shredded catmint) away from the newborn flames and offering them up to his partner in all things. He heaved a terribly put-upon sigh. He'd not much sleep the night before and his temper was string-tight and wicked thin at the edges. Draco was only adding to it, really, and Harry truly wasn't in the mood for another tiff. Especially over something as negligible as _who_ was permitted to add _what_ ingredients _when_.

"You know, sometimes I wish we'd offed your arrogance too, Draco dearest, along with old Riddle," he remarked, scowling (mostly) fondly at his companion. "Maybe that would explain my deep and continual urge to pummel you rotten."

"Maybe…"

Malfoy shrugged a shoulder and stirred the burgeoning embers. The first log had caught; it was only a matter of time before their small bonfire would be waist-high and capable of burning for hours.

Only a matter of _time_…

"But I wouldn't go there, Potter, not if I were you. You want me just as I am; told me so often enough."

"I do, yes." Harry grinned, dipping his chin, pondering time—and Snape—and the methods used to obtain happiness. "More fool I."

"Sod off. And allow _me_, Master Auror Potter, to add the remaining ingredients, if you please. I'm faster at this sort of work and far more accurate. And I'll need that blasted wand of yours in a minute, to stir. Two-fisted job, wracking reality this way and that to fit one's requirements. I wish there was some other way."

"How poetic, git. There isn't, sorry. Time Turners don't cut it—we've Snape's way or no way. Oi! Not too much persimmon, there! And don't overdo the thyme. We want to flavour this, not swamp it!"

Draco huffed, wrinkles gathering on his brow, his face pinkening as the heat rose off the gathered logs that constituted the base of their Beltane Bonfire. Sparks popped and hissed as green wood was consumed noisily, laid as it was in criss-cross and runic shapes above the aged oak and willow, rowan and hawthorn.

"Harry, Harry, I'm on it—never doubt me. It's exactly as it should be—golden-brown and at a low boil. How many times now have we done this?"

"Er, four? Three?" Harry cocked his head, considering. "Three. That first few didn't really count. I've never counted them, at least."

"Three officially then, and this last should be the very Charm, if Janus smiles. The fourth fire we burn is the truly crucial one, despite what the gobs think. Four's just as magical as three ever was; ask your damned Muggles about that. Even they know, Potter."

Harry shrugged. They weren't_ his_ Muggles, though Draco always claimed they were for argument's sake.

"Nnn. If Persephone smiles, you mean," he replied. "She's the bloody one we need, Draco. Fertility, regrowth, all that guff. Ugh, we'll have to drink this horrendous concoction one last time, you realize? Add more mint."

"No more mint, Potter. Plenty of mint already, believe me. And it's Demeter, actually. Mother goddess, just as the Muggle's Mary. Or Isis. Now, _she _was a rare contrary bitch, that one. Pieced together an entire god, Isis did. And don't think to debate the Muggle or the Wizarding mythos with me, Harry; you're not sufficiently competent for all your reading _National Geographic_, and…erm, if you would?" He thrust a set of fluttering fingers out, gesturing. "I need the next one, please. Clear vial, marked 'thyma, verbena'."

Harry tossed in the contents of a vial with flair. He also flung kindling—carefully pruned to exact matching lengths—with the other. Their Beltane fire hissed satisfactorily and gave off the distinct odour of lavender. Mixed, strangely enough, with cider.

"There!" he announced. "Powdered thyme, lemon, one dram. Counterclockwise stir once, then reverse, then again—and what d'you mean, '_I'm _not competent'? I wasn't arguing it, prat. If you want this thankless task so badly, you may have it, with all my good will. Fire away, have at it. Stir your grumpy little heart out."

Draco scowled at him, fond again contrarily, the firelight flickering kindly over the frown he kept up for habit's sake. Frowns, real ones, weren't the currency of their exchange…not now, _this_ now. Not for a long time. Point was to keep it that way.

"Snape was _my_ Head of House, Potter, remember? 'Stopper death', yeah? Old git taught me everything I know about brewing and what he didn't is all in his notebooks. Or Granger's fat head, nowadays. Bloody swot."

"Old bastard," Harry grumbled, "you know, he could've left me something other than his own sodding portraits. That silver cauldron Nev's got is an awfully nice keepsake and you've those lovely bookends, the gryphon ones that speak in riddles—now that's a decent set, rather. Go well in my study, they would. Wish he'd left me those in place of that damned locket."

"Grabby!" Draco scolded. "And you've no need to be so. I use the bookends in the lab at home; help your damned self, Harry. You'd be welcome. I've plenty of others, for Merlin's sake."

Harry merely shook his head, passing off the bookends as truly unimportant.

"No…I don't care that much." He shrugged. "Still…would've been pleasant to be remembered kindly by the old git as Lily's boy or maybe even as the stupid Saviour of the bloody world, eh? Anything other than as his worst-ever student—and Dad's son. I cringe, Draco, you realize? He could've gone without the blasted portraits of himself if he wanted my attentions so much. Left a letter, maybe a photo. Could've willed me nearly anything else he'd stashed away at Spinners—at least anything other than his bloody sneering face framed in giltwood peering at me every time I look up from my book. _Two_ sneering faces, actually, if I open this." Harry swung the locket he wore always, dangling it over the fire's edge on its blackened chain. "Bloody pocket Snape. Huh!"

"Oi, Potter!" came a faint querulous voice. "You _will_ rue the day you drop me, you little monster! You. Will. Rue!"

"Oh, so sorry, Professor." Harry drew the locket back to him and regarded it with eyebrows raised and a look of great satisfaction. He smirked at the rendering of the dark-haired sallow Wizard within. "Didn't realize you could feel that. My sincere apologies."

"Little git," the interior of the locket snarled. "Put me away now, Potter; you've no need of me if you are preparing my brew properly in the first place. Let me sleep. I'm exhausted, thanks to you."

"Of course we're preparing it properly, Professor. Or rather, _Draco_ is. Your golden boy. That's better than good enough, isn't it?"

"Hah!"

The locket only issued a faint, die-away snort, and Harry tucked it away back down his shirt front, smiling.

"Git, isn't he? See what I mean, love? No relief."

Draco matched the grin from his accustomed place stationed almost atop the small cauldron, his face perspiring lightly as he continued his endless stirring.

"I know, I know, believe me—I do _know_. He_ is_ a wanker, Harry; always was, and a stingy bastard. For all his, ahem, good points—and don't mention I've said any of that, Harry, not to him. He's in my bloody lab, you know. I've got him all day long sometimes, on weekends, over my shoulder. A trial, that."

"Agreed."

Harry chuckled, sharing a speaking glance. After but a moment, though, Draco's face fell and he was abruptly once more the serious, sincere man Harry had come to know and love over the years.

"Alright there, Draco?" Harry's stare went from amused to quizzical in an instant. "Draco...?"

"Yes, I suppose…" Draco nodded absentmindedly. "Oh, but remember, Harry; don't pay any mind to those damned old Greeks, alright? Or any of that folderol over Isis. Granger and I only use them for touch points when we modify the Potion, the histories. Not important now, though; all that's over and sorted. Now we stir and add, stir and drink, stir and wait—and bloody hope to hell we've tweaked it properly. This time, at least. We'll know in the morning, I'd guess."

Harry quirked his lips; in the gloaming, it may've been a smile that settled upon them. Or not.

"I certainly hope so, Draco. And I hope it's all to the good. I don't like this, you know? The bloom's gone off, rather." He poked at the fire's base, gloomily.

"We will, don't worry. We will." Draco bent to his task with a tiny huff of puffed breath and a gathering frown of intense concentration, reversing his perpetual, even-gaited stirring counterclockwise. Another handful of something minced was added. The cauldron bubbled nastily, sending up a lingering curl of black, acrid soot. "Can't go too wrong, can we? Done it enough times, now."

"Well…get it right, then, love," Harry urged, rising to bustle about, gathering more ingredients and laying them out for the designated Stirrer. "I want to sleep at home again, where I should be. I've missed you," he chided.

Draco blushed a brighter, more brilliant hue, his cheeks burning not only from the heat of the fire, but made no discernible reply, only ducked his chin stubbornly, nibbling his lower lip. A pinch of something else was sprinkled in precise quantity. The fire sizzled before its patient tenders, hissing vague Parseltongue-like 'esses' and emitting showers of magenta sparks now and again.

"Draco?" Harry broke the peaceable silence at last, shivering a bit as the lightest of zephyr's sprung up from the lake's edge, but a few meters distant.

"Same goes."

T'was a barely audible mutter, but Draco's unoccupied hand crept surreptitiously down his shirt front, finally alighting in an uneasy rest atop his buckle and flies. Harry, peering from the corner of one eye, watched with satisfaction as his lover gave his bits a fast, rough rub, even as he spun on heel to pluck up the next ingredient ready for adding.

Hiss, pop, and more quiet...till Draco snapped his white teeth. Like a dog, worrying a bone.

"Same goes."

He snarled the words a second time directly at the heart of their tiny Beltane blaze. Harry's tentative quirk of lips morphed into a full, happy grin. It was as good as sodding magic, wasn't it? As good as done. Janus would be sure to smile.


End file.
